England
by Snommis
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. When Sherlock returned, John did not punch anyone. He did not yell or swear or faint. No. He got shot. Again. But everything was going to be fine. After all, journeys end in lovers meetings.


**A/N:** Not mine, any of it. Not the characters, the single line stolen directly from Arthur Conan Doyle/Shakespeare nor the lyrics to _You Were a Kindness _by The National_._

* * *

There's a radiant darkness upon us

But I don't want you to worry

I was careful but nothing is harmless

./.

You were a kindness when I was a stranger

But I wouldn't ask for what I didn't need

Everything's weird and we're always in danger

Why would you shatter somebody like me?

./.

It doesn't work that way

Wanting not to want you won't make it so

It doesn't work that way

Don't leave me here alone

./.

I'll do what I can to be a confident wreck

Can't feel this way forever, I mean

There wasn't any way for anyone to settle in

You made a slow disaster out of me

./.

* * *

John was supposed to have been at Scotland Yard at eleven o'clock. It was now close to noon. Time had slipped from him. Or rather, he had found the day's lone task of going out in the world and into Baker Street so monumental that he had let time slip. Time didn't matter, anyway.

The train ride into central London was painfully familiar, the route to his old flat even more so. _Their_ flat.

Eighteen months had passed since he had left 221B in favour of a small, nondescript flat on the outskirts of London. As far away as he could possibly bear, which, in the end, wasn't very far at all.

This was not the first time he had returned since moving out, leaving behind a pale, tearful Mrs Hudson. He still had the keys to the flat, still came for tea with his former landlady, still occasionally had to unearth some random scrap of information from the many piles of papers, clippings and stolen files that Sherlock had left behind.

It didn't happen often, but it did happen, that Lestrade called him, asking for help when difficult cases somehow resembled those Sherlock had once solved.

John would usually refuse if it meant having to go through Sherlock's things, telling Lestrade that he had no more of a clue about where what was in the disorganised flat that Mycroft kept paying the rent for than the Detective Inspector. It was a legitimate claim and he felt more than justified for his attitude on the subject. The days of relapsing into the deep trenches of pain so keen it made breathing all but impossible were simply not worth it.

Only this time it would have to be. People were dying and John knew exactly where the folder with newspaper clippings and handwritten notes were. Furthermore, he knew how to get the information that Scotland Yard was struggling to unearth.

Homeless network. If they were not too scared, that was. It was after all homeless people who were being murdered, mutilated with surgical precision and turning up limb by limb in dumpsters and bins across the city. The third body – parts of it – had been found only yesterday evening.

It had happened before. Back then it had been a diplomat – an expatriate to Australia who also happened to be the Earl of something. Sherlock had been called in – by Mycroft no less – to ensure that the investigation was conducted as swiftly and quietly as possible. Sherlock had vehemently insisted that the murder was too refined to be the work of anyone but an experienced serial killer, but been unable to prove it.

Sighing, he used the knocker and waited for Mrs Hudson to answer the door. Better not to act as if he still lived there. He never would again. No matter what persuasive argument Mycroft was determined to throw at him. It had absolutely nothing to do with the rent or practicality. _Damn it all_.

"Oh, John, hello. How are you, dear? It's been ages," Mrs Hudson greeted, immediately giving him a once-over that resulted in a worried, disapproving frown.

"I'm fine. Same as always," he deflected, knowing by now that the question demanded an answer. "And how are you? 221C still empty?"

"You know how it is, with the damp and all… Let me just put the kettle on and we'll have some tea and apple pie. You're lucky – it's just out of the oven. I have to say, you look like you could need a bit of –"

"I can't, sorry. I'm already running late," he cut off Mrs Hudson's fussing, giving her a small smile that he knew fooled absolutely no one.

"Oh. The police? It's those murders isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Terrible business, terrible. Would have been right up Sherlock's street, though. He always – oh, sorry, John. I didn't mean to –"

"It's fine," he said, clearing his throat lightly as he made sure to look anywhere but at Mrs Hudson's expression. "I'll just go get the papers."

* * *

Taking the lift up to Lestrade's floor, John caught sight of his own reflection in the blank steel of the doors and saw how his thumb moved continuously over the folder in his hand. He immediately seized the action, biting the inside of his cheek as a small reprimand. _Stop it_.

The lift announced his destination with a metallic _pling._ Taking a steadying breath he strode out of the enclosed space, purposefully avoiding eye contact with any of the Yarders that might be present.

It took him exactly six determined steps to realise that something was terribly, impossibly wrong. Or was it unbelievably, impossibly right?

Standing inside one of the glass-enclosed meeting rooms was his ghost.

Even with the back turned towards him and dressed in a long, beige – _beige _– trenchcoat there was no mistaking the figure or the agitated gestures. He would have recognised him anywhere. Sherlock.

It took forever before he noticed that Lestrade – in the process of dialling a number on his phone – and Mycroft – standing to the side, impassively leaning against his umbrella – were also present. It all seemed so very distant; like looking across an entire ocean.

The shrill ring of a phone startled John out of the blankness that had become his mind and back to the reality of the bustling police officers that hadn't spared him a look so far. The folder filled with Sherlock's handwritten notes slipped from his hand in the same moment as Lestrade noticed him, looking at John as if he was the ghost.

Sherlock turned around in a sharp, graceful move and immediately fixed his eyes on him.

He was paler and thinner, but indisputably _alive_.

All substance seemed to drain from the room until nothing was left but a static, roaring deafness. It felt a lot like being too close to a grenade going off.

Time stood still as Mycroft looked down at the tip of his umbrella planted on the floor and Lestrade stared at the back of Sherlock's head with a curious mix of shock and anger.

"John."

He could not actually hear Sherlock's voice through the glass but recognised the way the mouth moved when speaking his name. Or maybe he did, somehow, hear Sherlock.

He took an uncertain step forward that was mirrored by Sherlock, only to find that his limbs were not exactly obeying him.

No. Not here. He could not deal with it here. He needed air, space, something to lean on.

Behind him, beyond the roar of his own ears, he heard the _pling_ of the lift and John fled, walking as swiftly as possible without running towards that _pling_. He needed to get out. He needed to breathe.

He randomly pressed a bottom on the display, unsure of whether it was the one for the reception or the top floor.

"John!"

This time he definitely heard. _Sherlock_.

The doors closed just as Sherlock would have reached him. The sound of a fist against the metal as the lift set into motion caused a wave of nausea to hit him with surprising violence. Clamming a hand over his mouth, John focused all his energy on breathing calmly through his nose. Breathing was unreasonably difficult.

_Ugh. Breathing. Breathing's boring._

He made it outside, trying to inhale the London air. Everything was muted and out of focus and he was only vaguely aware that he was going to collide with the 'New Scotland Yard' sign if he did not deviate from his current route.

It was Sherlock's voice that pierced the numbing quiet.

"No! John, wait! JOHN!"

Panic. Why would there be panic in his voice? And why did it sound like the boots of an entire regiment were storming towards him?

One moment he was turning back around, unable to not react to Sherlock's panicked tone and needing a visual confirmation of what was going on behind him that exuded a level of stress reminiscent to war. The next, he was on the ground, forced down on his back by a sudden, staggering pressure against his chest.

"_NO!_"

The sound of heavy boots against the ground increased, dark-clad figures passing by his peripheral vision on each side. Four, deafening shots were fired. There were so many people. Where did all the people suddenly come from?

"Idiot! You goddamn idiot!" Sherlock's voice exclaimed just as a flash of dull pain shot through him. Something was being pressed hard against his chest and it hurt. Shot. He had been shot and Sherlock was trying to staunch the bleeding.

John distractedly noted that the pressure, which held him firmly to the ground was too close to his heart, but all he could really focus on was a pair of familiar eyes that he had never seen so frightened, hovering above him. Sherlock.

Sirens were wailing close by and he felt cold all over.

"John! John, do you hear me? Mycroft! Help!"

Another person entered his line of sight. It was impossible for him to make out who it was. His vision was fading. Blood loss. Not good. All that was left for him to register were the voices and the sounds of boots, yelling and sirens.

"I'll stay with him. Go, before you lose Moran. _Go_, Sherlock!"

"I swear, Mycroft, if he –"

"I realise what you are trusting me with, thank you, Sherlock. I hope you do too, Detective Inspector."

"Got it," Lestrade said from somewhere on his left over the sound of a gun being loaded. "Take it, Sherlock."

The sirens cut off just as they became unbearably loud. More metallic rustling. Flashes of blue light washing over his blurred and darkened vision. More people. Shouted orders. Warmth very close to his face.

"Keep my heart beating." The words were no more than a rushed breath against his ear, but they were tinted with a dark desperation that made them register crystal clear in his mind.

Then he was lifted up. It felt like floating. Or maybe he was sinking. It was impossible to tell.

* * *

He woke up to the smell of hospital and the sound of a heart monitor, but only remained conscious long enough to learn that breathing hurt like hell.

* * *

The second time he woke, John was pretty sure he was not actually awake. There was a deep, oppressive darkness all around him, weighing down heavily on him. He could not move. Could, in fact, not even think about trying to move. Still, he could hear voices. Loud voices.

_Visiting hours. Family only. Isolation ward. Rules. Moronic idiots. _

Sherlock.

* * *

It was a rather unique sensation, waking up from a medically induced coma. Uncomfortable. He had tried this before. All he had to do was wait until the heavy fog lifted. Just like Afghanistan. But this was not Afghanistan. Was it?

"There you go... Don't give me that face; it's better than the crap they serve here."

Lestrade.

"Marginally."

Sherlock. _Sherlock._

Waiting to wake up was suddenly very much inferior to struggling against the morphine. Fighting against it would make him wake faster. Right?

"Still no change?"

"No. They said it would take between thirty minutes and an hour," Sherlock's voice rang out impatiently.

He had to wake up. Had to break through the fog that was pressing him down, keeping him away from what he desperately hoped was reality.

"And it's been how long now?"

"Forty-two," was the hard, instantaneous reply.

"At least you're not keeping tabs on the seconds," Lestrade snorted, amusement clear in his voice.

"Shut up."

"Relax. He'll be fine."

"Of course he'll be fine." The words were an uncompromising sneer, achingly familiar in its annoyed intolerance for stating the obvious.

It was real. Sherlock had been at Scotland Yard with Mycroft and Lestrade. At Scotland Yard… where he had been shot. Again. Damn it.

"Think he'll forgive you?"

"I wasn't the one who shot him."

"No. What you did was much worse."

"It's none of your business, Inspector." The last word was spat out with so much venom it sounded downright acidic.

"It is my business, all right. John's a friend and – don't start with me. John's a friend and his wellbeing is my concern, just as it should be yours."

There was a scraping of something across the floor and John increased his efforts to break through the fog that prevented him from opening his eyes. He needed to _see_.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"Don't for one second presume you have any idea what you're talking about!"

"Maybe not, but I do know that he wasn't getting better. Eighteen months, Sherlock, and he wasn't getting any better! I don't know what went on between the two of you and, frankly, I don't give two shits at this point. What I do care about is that you made him watch as you jumped off a bloody building and that it all but killed him. He lost far more than a flatmate or a friend. Try and remember that."

"Get out."

"No."

"_Leave_."

"No, Sherlock. I'm not leaving you alone with him. He's been out for five days and might not remember that you're not dead and if he does remember – well, then I'll be here to punch you in the face for him."

John surprised himself by releasing a pained, gurgling sound from his throat at Lestrade's deadpan comment.

"John?"

Finally. He could open his eyes. Either the ceiling was completely white or he was blind. Blinking did nothing to help.

"John."

A dark figure loomed over him. Not blind then. He felt relatively confident that he opened his mouth, but speaking did not come to him.

Was that a hand against his cheek?

"It's all right. You're all right. You were shot, but you're all right now. You're at the hospital."

"Know… that." His voice sounded completely wrong.

"Sherlock. You need to call the doctors," Lestrade reprimanded firmly.

The warm pressure against the side of his face – hand? – disappeared and the dark figure retreated to the peripheral left of his line of sight.

"I am capable of talking and pressing a button at the same time."

* * *

By the time a middle-aged, balding man walked calmly into the room, John had regained the ability to focus his eyes. As the doctor approached his bed, Sherlock retreated to the wall beside the door.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. Good to see you with us again. I'm Doctor Redgrave. I was the one to patch up the hasty work done in the ambulance."

"I appreciate it," he said, trying to make his voice sound less rusty. The glass of water Sherlock had poured him had only worked marginally. "How bad?"

"You've been extremely lucky. Had the trajectory – "

"He was shot!" Sherlock snapped viciously. "He almost _died _on_ your_ operating table. How exactly is that 'lucky'?"

"Behave or leave," Lestrade warned from the opposite end of the room. "We've already had this conversation with your brother."

"Sorry about that. You were saying?" John asked Doctor Redgrave, only then realising that he was already making excuses on behalf of Sherlock. It was almost too much and he had to focus on breathing as the far too familiar, bone-crushing sorrow reared its head.

"As I was saying, you have, under the circumstances, been extremely lucky. The bullet went clean through between your second and third rib. You sustained some damage to your lung, but nothing serious."

Surprise blanked out everything else for a second. _Nothing serious? _He should not have survived that. People did not survive a shot like that. "But why – "

"Have we kept you under for five days? Well, there was some damage to your pulmonary veins. You lost a lot of blood and put your heart under considerable strain."

"Ah. And – "

"And everything is healing up fine. No complications so far, which make it highly unlikely that there will be any. All you need to do is stay still and heal and you'll be out of here in a weeks time."

"That sounds… good," he offered neutrally.

The doctor gave him a polite smile, looking from the EKG down to his chart. "Any symptoms you feel you shouldn't have?"

"No."

"No faintness? Trouble focussing? Undue nausea or pain?"

"No."

"All right. We'll continue with the same level of morphine for the next couple of days, gradually lowering the doze and eventually – well, I suppose you know the drill."

"Yes, thank you," he immediately said, relieved at the prospect of not having to go through all the details. He was perfectly aware of what would happen over the next days and weeks. Medically, at least.

"Any questions, you let one of the nurses know and I'll be around as quickly as possible. Otherwise I will see you at rounds tomorrow evening."

"Great. 'Till tomorrow, then."

The doctor left with a nod directed at Lestrade and Sherlock. John was pretty sure he did not imagine the tensing of Redgrave's shoulders as he met Sherlock's eyes before leaving the room.

John spent a minute exchanging pleasantries with Lestrade before the room fell into a charged silence. As guilty as he felt about it, he desperately wanted Lestrade to leave.

"Detective Inspector. Didn't you have somewhere you needed to be?" Sherlock eventually inquired sharply.

"No. I'm good on time," Lestrade countered, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Sure?"

John interrupted the little standoff with a clearing of his throat just as Lestrade opened his mouth again. Two pair of eyes immediately turned to him.

"Greg, I appreciate it," he said as calmly as possible, "but I'm not a bloody child. I can handle this."

"You sure?"

He took a calming breath. "Positive."

Lestrade nodded, seemingly to himself. "All right, then. I'll see you later."

"Thank you for coming by."

"Sure, mate. You just get better, you hear me?"

"Ta."

"Lestrade –"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll call your interfering brother and let him know John's awake," Lestrade sighed. He looked like he had spent too much time with the Holmes brothers as of late.

The door closed behind Lestrade with a metallic click, leaving behind a new, strangely empty silence. It seemed to grow exponentially with the seconds that passed. Eventually John figured he could no longer remain staring at the door and turned his head towards Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was very much alive despite looking thinner and paler than ever.

Sherlock, who looked completely composed as he pushed himself off the wall and came to sit in the chair beside his bed.

Sherlock, who did not return his gaze but instead looked towards the small window across the room as he tucked at one of John's blankets, smoothing out a fold.

He was surprised at his lack of emotion and words at seeing his dead friend again. Perhaps it was the morphine or maybe he was in shock and every reaction was put on hold until he could actually grasp the fact that the man sitting at his bedside was in fact there. It was difficult to tell.

_What on earth do you say in a situation like this?_

Just as he opened his mouth, Sherlock held up a single hand in a silent request that John did not have the strength to deny. And then Sherlock talked. He explained and described and filled in. He talked and talked, more than he had ever done before and with a patience that was unparalleled.

Moriarty dooming himself by shaking Sherlock's hand. Moriarty's suicide. Snipers. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and him. Jumping. Faking a very convincing death. Dismantling Moriarty's web with the assistance of Mycroft and his people. Sebastian Moran, rebuffing Mycroft's efforts at every turn. Waiting for Moran to either show himself or call off his minions that had been following John's every step through the scope of a rifle. Sherlock accidentally revealing himself to Moran in Tibet. Discovering that Moran wanted to kill him in person and in front of Sherlock, as revenge for Moriarty's death. Setting up his meeting with Lestrade to lure Moran close to Scotland Yard where the police and Mycroft's men were waiting. Losing track of him before he had even made it to Baker Street because his phone had died and Mycroft had neglected physical surveillance (heads had been rolling).

"It was pure luck that Moran insisted on killing you himself and doing it where I would witness it. All I really had to do was return to England without trying to keep it too much of a secret and then let him follow me to Scotland Yard," Sherlock eventually finished his tale, looking as composed and detached as ever.

"Sentiment?" John eventually asked, congratulating himself on the fact that his voice was steady.

"Sentiment," Sherlock confirmed with a small grimace, still not looking at him. "Apparently Moran was close to Moriarty."

_Pets. So touchingly loyal._

"You actually asked Mycroft for help."

Another small grimace flitted across Sherlock's profile. "It would have taken at least twice as long if I hadn't."

"That must have been a bitter pill to swallow," he observed with feigned indifference. _Could you at least look at me?_

"John – "

"I'm still very angry," he cut Sherlock off, despite the fact that he had yet to feel anything beyond what he had felt the past eighteen months.

"I know."

Somehow those two words, spoken so flippantly were enough to break the dam.

"NO YOU DON'T!" John shouted at the top of his lungs before he could stop himself, blinding anger suddenly filling up the vast emptiness inside him.

It took several deep, concentrated breaths to get his EKG back down to an acceptable rate and even longer for him to unclench the sheets from his hands.

"You really don't, Sherlock. You, for all your genius, can't understand this. It's the grit in the ointment; the fly on the lens, remember? This is complete, pure anger, Sherlock. Raw emotion."

"It's fine… No. It isn't. What I mean is… I understand that you're angry. I knew you would be," Sherlock said quietly, shifting his gaze down towards his own folded hands.

"Well, brilliant deduction, as always," he mocked. "If I wasn't chained to this damn bed –"

"I know. You would punch me. I had that down as the most likely scenario."

"Had you now? What was the second most likely?" There was nothing but mocking anger in the question, but Sherlock remained unmoved.

"Punching Mycroft," he said casually, still looking down at his lap.

"Eighteen months, Sherlock! EIGHTEEN! How could – I don't even –"

"Seventeen months and twenty-one days," Sherlock interrupted quietly.

"_What?_"

"It's not been eighteen but seventeen months and twenty-one days."

He clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt, only barely keeping in all the things he wanted to say as Sherlock slowly turned his head back up, finally, finally, meeting his eyes.

Neither looked away and John could see the exact moment a crack appeared in the inscrutable façade that was Sherlock's face, until the aloof detachment crumbled completely, leaving nothing behind but an agonising weariness that he himself had come to know far too intimately.

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock eventually murmured.

"Don't even think about it."

"Thank you."

The weary edge to Sherlock became even more pronounced as he settled further back in the hard chair. He looked older, as if he had seen and done too much in too short a time. John realised with a small sigh that he was not the only one who had aged beyond what the calendar might suggest.

* * *

Close to an hour passed in silence. A nurse came to switch the saltwater bag connected to his IV. The poor woman looked positively terrified of the looming figure at his bedside and John tried to put her at ease with a few, straightforward questions about his condition.

"You've been terrorising every single person employed in this place, haven't you?" he asked once they were alone again.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled, giving him an affronted glare.

"Of course you have," he sighed. "I'm stating the obvious with that question, really."

"I'm not a doctor. How am I supposed to know what they do to you if I don't ask?"

"Ask, fine. But that poor girl was shaking at the sight of you."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, arms crossing a little tighter over his chest in pique.

_We've been in the same room – consciously – for less than three hours and we're already bickering like before. _

John could feel in the way he had to supress a small smile that it would take him an embarrassingly short amount of time to forgive Sherlock. How could he do anything but forgive, when Sherlock's presence alone soothed the real wound so much John could even begin to believe he would one day recover? It was funny, how the worst wounds were always those that left behind no visible scars.

"So…" he eventually said, clearing his throat, "all this because my phone died and I was late for my appointment with Lestrade?"

"Yes. Very unprofessional of you, John." There was the vaguest sense of familiar teasing in his voice as Sherlock's pale eyes met his.

"What happens now?"

"I return to my home."

"Baker Street?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed with a piercing look. "Mycroft informed me that you have a flat in the North West."

John merely nodded in confirmation, utterly unsurprised. A brief twitch of disapproval tucked at Sherlock's cheek, creating lines around his right eye. "Really, John. Harlesden? The rent at Baker Street isn't even that much more."

"You want me to move back in?"

_You want me to come with you?_

"Well, it is a much nicer location and I'm not exactly an easy man to find a flatmate for."

_I think better when I talk aloud and the skull just attracts attention._

For the briefest moment they shared a small grin, but then the heavy, consuming pain decided to resurface, swallowing everything up until John felt completely hollow.

"You don't need a flatmate. I was mailed a copy of your testament," he said in a clipped tone. "You have a very generous trust fund."

"I need_ you_." It was said as a statement of fact, accompanied by the hardest look John could remember ever receiving from Sherlock. The moment lasted a few long seconds before Sherlock looked away and made an annoyed flap with his hand. "Besides, my funds are controlled by –"

The door to the room swung open to reveal Mycroft's tall figure, umbrella resting in the crook of his arm.

" – Mycroft," Sherlock finished the sentence. "Speaking of the devil."

"Still so aggressive even now that the good doctor has risen," Mycroft taunted, giving Sherlock a benign smile that was returned with a silent sneer. The familiarity of that small exchange sent a painful contraction through John's chest, causing the beeps of his heart monitor to stutter alarmingly for a moment.

Sherlock was already halfway to the emergency button before John could say, "I'm fine."

"Sit down, Sherlock. I'm sure Doctor Watson is perfectly capable of letting us know whether or not further medical attention is needed."

Sherlock gave his brother another silent sneer before he all but fell back into the plastic chair, arms crossed over his chest.

"So," Mycroft began again, "how _are_ you feeling, John?"

"Like I was shot in the chest."

Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to the other while Sherlock's mouth tucked in a tiny, crooked smile.

"Yes… I hear you are on the fast road to recovery none the less. 'Journeys end in lovers meetings' and all that."

_What?_

"It was a lucky shot. For me," he said briskly, completely ignoring Mycroft's convoluted way of not making sense. He had only just regained consciousness, for God's sake. There was no way he was dealing with this already.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, shooting Sherlock a strange look. "I assume you will both be moving back into Baker Street?"

John looked towards Sherlock as well, but he seemed to have taken a sudden interest in the grey linoleum floor.

"Yeah… we will," John confirmed instead, not missing how Sherlock's shoulders relaxed minutely.

As if he had a choice. As if he had ever stood a chance.

"Wonderful," Mycroft declared. "A wise decision that will significantly lower your chances of getting mugged… or stabbed."

John did not deign that with a reply and Mycroft left soon after.

* * *

It took six days before he was released from the hospital, enough painkillers to put down a couple of horses rustling around in Sherlock's pockets as they slowly climbed into a sleek, black car that was considerably more comfortable than a cab.

"Mycroft's confidence in CCTV almost killed you," Sherlock explained vaguely when he raised a questioning eyebrow.

* * *

"I _can_ walk," John felt the need to protest once he stood on the pavement in front of 221B and Sherlock immediately stepped up to his side, one hand holding tightly unto his upper arm while the other settled between his shoulder blades. They had made it from the hospital in a similar fashion.

"Indulge me," Sherlock retorted simply.

Mrs Hudson was there to open the door for them. She had a curious mix of emotions on her face and tears in her eyes, but remained completely silent as he walked across the threshold, Sherlock firmly at his side.

Even with the steadying hand against his back the steps up to the flat were enough to make his breath laboured. God, he hated being shot.

Sherlock steered him over to the sofa, throwing a waiting blanket over his legs once they were propped up on the coffee table.

He could feel Sherlock's heavy gaze on him as he got comfortable, but the moment he looked up Sherlock averted his eyes.

"Tea?" he asked, already stalking into the kitchen. "I'll make tea."

"You never make tea."

Sherlock let out a short laugh. It sounded almost hysteric. Frayed. "You almost died. I think I can make an exception."

"It wasn't your fault that I got shot," he said quietly.

"That's not the point, John," Sherlock all but snapped. "Even if it were true."

"And I'm not going to suddenly die on you," he continued undisturbed, ignoring Sherlock's tone. The attempt to communicate calm through statements of fact did not have their intended effect as Sherlock twirled around, hands clenched into fists and eyes blazing. "It's not _funny_."

"No. It isn't," he replied just as fiercely, which seemed to throw Sherlock slightly.

He floundered, moving around in the kitchen that was too neat, too large, with disorganised, nervous movements.

"Mycroft's minions haven't done much shopping. There's no milk," Sherlock declared after a minute. "I'll uh – go see if Mrs Hudson has some we can use."

"You do that. I'm bloody well not going to the shops."

That gave Sherlock pause, his uncertain flailing coming to a sudden standstill as an almost… betrayed expression crossed his face. It reminded him of the swimming pool where Carl Powers had died. Hurt.

"Of course not. You can't honestly think I was suggesting –"

"It's called a joke, Sherlock. Look it up some time."

"Oh."

Half a minute later the sound of two people making their way up the stairs reached John along with Sherlock's annoyed voice, saying, "I am perfectly capable of making John a cup of tea."

"Nonsense, Sherlock. I'm happy to do it and I just made biscuits," Mrs Hudson argued back.

Sherlock looked positively murderous as he followed Mrs Hudson into the kitchen. "I thought you _weren't_ our housekeeper."

"John's been shot, Sherlock."

"I am aware of –"

"Oh, would you stop fussing," Mrs Hudson suddenly scolded. "Go sit down and let me take care of this."

Sherlock stalked across the room, grumbling something no doubt unpleasant under his breath, before sitting down next to him on the sofa with a care that was in juxtaposition to the scowl on his face. They never sat on the sofa together.

"I am _perfectly_ capable of taking care of… making tea," Sherlock continued grumbling, tucking slightly at the blanket covering his legs for no apparent purpose.

"Of course you are, but I don't need a nursemaid. I've done this before, remember?" he said firmly, cutting off the stream of unintelligible insults aimed at no one in particular.

"That was in the shoulder. There's a difference," Sherlock stated flatly, hands once more balled into fists.

"I know."

"You almost died."

That was the second time in less than five minutes the man who hated repeating himself and stating the obvious had said those exact words.

_I will burn the heart out of you. Keep my heart beating. _

"I didn't," he eventually settled for saying, reaching out to take Sherlock's hand lightly in his. All the tension drained from the man beside him, allowing him once more to see just how exhausted Sherlock really was. It appeared they would have to take care of each other.

Nothing new, then.

Sherlock fell asleep – head resting in an uncomfortable angle against the back of the sofa and fingers curled slightly around his thumb – within minutes of Mrs Hudson's smiling descend down the stairs.

So much for 'nothing new'.

* * *

./.

* * *

A week passed at Baker Street in which a few – three to be precise – boxes of John's belongings from his small, dreadful flat in Harlesden arrived. Courtesy of Mycroft's people.

Sherlock and John had each other listed as emergency contacts (Harry really was not the most reliable option) and were put in charge of any and all legal and medical decisions concerning the other. Courtesy of Mycroft's lawyer.

All in all, far too many things were _courtesy of Mycroft_ lately, but Sherlock found that he did not care too much.

John rested a lot, focussing on getting better. They had switched bedrooms for the time being, allowing John better access to the rest of the flat. He had felt… almost smug when he had managed to make that suggestion before anyone else.

Sherlock spent the days helping John in any way possible, letting him know through sure actions rather than clumsy words just how grateful he was to have been given back everything he needed by the one person who had the power to grant it. Baker Street wouldn't be home without John. How could it, when John _was_ home?

That did, however, not mean that everything simply returned to the way it had been. There was no arguing and no body parts in the fridge or experiments in the kitchen that still looked strangely large.

In fact, they barely talked. John didn't seem to mind and so he made no efforts to change it, but rather used the opportunity to relax, simply enjoying the calm in his mind that John's presence seemed to breed.

It felt like being in an impenetrable cocoon. Everything was at an impasse while John recovered. If Sherlock was being truthful, they were both recovering. Some of the things he had done during his absence, some of the choices he had made still haunted him in a completely unfamiliar way. He needed the period of quiet to acclimatize just as much as John did.

It could not go on forever, though. He didn't want it to, despite feeling apprehensive about what would happen afterwards. There would most likely be an argument. A lot of yelling. Accusations of betrayal and broken trust, of anger and hate.

_Don't leave_.

* * *

It was on the seventh day back at Baker Street that John made them switch back to their own bedrooms, insisting that the extra flight of stairs would do him good. Sherlock could not possibly have cared less even if he had made an effort to do so and had simply moved the necessary items to the 'right' rooms – there was, after all, still such a thing as too many stairs for John.

It was on his last trip down from John's room, his arms filled with sheets, that the first crack appeared in the strange ceasefire that lay heavy over Baker Street.

John was standing with his back to the doorway, slowly unpacking the boxes from the flat in Harlesden.

He watched, unknown to John, as he unwrapped a smallish item and slowly made his way over to the mantelpiece. The skull. John was placing the skull back on the mantelpiece. John had taken it with him (he would have to apologise to Mrs Hudson, it seemed).

John wrapped one arm around himself, almost as if he was giving himself a hug, while the other – or so he assumed – was pinching the bridge of his nose. Even with his back turned towards him, John looked so very frail.

A second later, a ragged breath escaped John and he could not bear watching any longer. He quickly made his way to the bathroom, keeping his eyes averted to the floor. The sheets were thrown into the washing machine with more force than was strictly speaking necessary, but he couldn't have cared less. His hands were trembling.

_Focus. _How to turn the contraption on?

Sherlock figured it could not be that difficult and dumped what was hopefully a reasonable amount of detergent into the machine, his mind roaring in a jumbled litany of thoughts and emotions.

The dam had broken, releasing equal parts indignant righteousness – _I was right. There was a sniper. You would have died. I would do it again. I don't regret it_ – panicked remorse – _I'm sorry. I never meant for things to turn out like this. I never wanted to hurt you. Please don't leave me_ – and defiant anger – _This is all your fault, all these emotions. I hate you for making me feel so much. I hate you for making me this weak._

He sneered at the humming washing machine and strode into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with as much force as he could muster in that moment before he sunk down against it, arms wrapping around his knees.

* * *

He had not meant to curl up in bed and he had most certainly not meant to fall asleep. As such, Sherlock felt entirely justified when approaching creaks made him bound out of bed, heart beating too fast.

No. Mycroft had them under surveillance. Baker Street was safe. That only left one possibility: John.

There was a faint thud from beyond the door. A body sliding down a wall? Maybe, but why? Collapsing? No. Would have made more noise. Heart failure? Internal bleeding? _John._

Sherlock was at the door, ripping it open in less than a second, fear clogging his throat.

John was sitting slumped against the wall directly opposite his door, his face contorted in a grimace so lost and painful it chilled Sherlock to the bone.

The tells were impossible to miss and the conclusion as obvious as anything. _Nightmare._

Always the brave soldier, John had stuffed one fist halfway into his mouth, silencing both the tears that seemed to flow endlessly down his cheeks as well as the tremors wracking his entire body.

Sherlock tentatively took the few steps from the threshold of his bedroom to John's side, sinking down beside him. Carefully – uncertain how to offer comfort and unable to do anything but – Sherlock snaked one arm between John's trembling back and the wall, the other wrapping around his front, hand holding onto his good shoulder. When that somehow didn't seem enough, Sherlock pulled John closer, until he was leaning into his side, his forehead coming to rest against John's temple.

They sat like that, in complete silence but for John's uneven breathing, for a long, long time before John uncurled a little and grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm. Warm fingers clammed around his wrist – his pulse point – and John released a terrible, choked sob.

"I am so sorry."

In the end Sherlock had no idea how many times he repeated those words or what else he precisely said, but he knew that he would probably never speak truer words.

John eventually ran out of tears.

"I am truly sorry."

"Yes, well…" John wiped the last remnants of tear tracks from his face and cleared his throat. "It's fine. You're alive and it's all –"

"Don't. Just – don't. It's not fine. I know that and I'm not asking for forgiveness, I'm just… sorry."

John slowly untangled himself and they got to their feet, shivering slightly.

He was exhausted, perhaps more so than ever before, but not willing to go to bed. Not willing to go anywhere where John was not. It was too soon.

"Tea?" It was a plea. _Don't leave_.

"Sure," John sighed, leading the way into the kitchen.

They stood together, shoulders brushing, as the kettle boiled and eventually ended up in their respective armchairs, once more lapsing into silence.

John looked into the crackling fire and Sherlock watched John.

The fireplace produced a particularly loud pop (Resin? Dampness?) that caused John's hands to shake for a moment before he put his cup aside on the floor and flexed his fingers.

"One of the most difficult things," John eventually began in a disturbingly defeated tone, "was not being able to explain. To not be… allowed… to grieve. Sure, everyone got it in the beginning and everyone expected it to get worse around the anniversary, but apparently a year and a half without 'any perceivable progress' as Ella put it, is too long to mourn the… the _death_ of your flatmate. Even if he was also your best friend."

John closed his eyes, clenched his jaw before suddenly looking up, holding Sherlock captive with an unwavering gaze.

"People don't get it," John all but gritted out, eyes blazing with emotion.

"People rarely do."

John looked away again and Sherlock regretted not being able to say something more profound – something that would take the pain away, make it better.

When John spoke again his voice was so quiet it was barely audible above the fire. That did not prevent the words from cutting, adding mercilessly to the pain and guilt and sorrow that had been eating away at his marrow for too long.

"I've often thought," John said, "during the past eighteen months, that it would have been easier if we had actually been together, as half of London seemed to think we were. People would have understood that – understood our relationship – if I could have labelled you my boyfriend or partner or husband or whatever. That kind of loss is understood. Losing your best friend doesn't translate well into losing the l –" John cut himself off, swallowing convulsively a few times before releasing a ragged breath.

" – into losing everything. You were my whole damn life, Sherlock. Everything beside you and your work was just… it was a charade. Compared to this," he gestured to the space around them, still not looking at him. "It meant absolutely nothing. You could make me so angry, but before you I was… I was so alone. I was so lonely. Did you see that, Sherlock, along with everything else back when we first met? Did you deduce that before you I had my gun lying in my desk drawer, waiting?"

Sherlock had always known that he failed to understand emotions and relationships on a daily basis, but felt certain his shortcomings had never before been so complete or wrecked so much damage.

John had other friends and girlfriends and Sherlock had truly believed he was the one to bear the brunt of the past year and a half. He had never questioned it until now where John's words were stripping every last pretense. And he had failed to see.

"John…"

"It would have been easier," John said, not showing any signs of having heard him. "For us as well. Wouldn't have been any boring teachers or anyone else to interfere with the work and people would have gotten why I grieved the way I did. You know, there were even times when I wished it had been that easy, that it had been like that."

"John." It was a warning as well as a heartbroken plea. _I am so sorry_.

"I know. I know, Sherlock. You're not interested in anything but brainwork and that's fine. All I'm saying is that it might actually have been easier if I was a little less straight and you were a little less uninterested."

He supposed that was one way of putting it. And apparently it was a night for truths. He could give John a few as well. He owed him at least that, as was underlined by the simple fact that John was here with him even after everything he had made him endure. That particular fact did, however, not make it easier. Setting his cup aside and steepling his fingers underneath his chin didn't help either.

"John, I'm… No matter what, I am… yours. As much as I can possibly be anyone's. I am… devoted to you. Completely."

The look he received was so vulnerable that for a moment he was certain tears were going to fall down John's cheeks again. They didn't.

"That's the thing, isn't it?" John said, swallowed, and pierced him with an intent look. "You mean far more to me than anyone else ever have or ever will. Above all, I want this, here," he made a not-quite composed gesture between them. "We never really talked about that."

"Well, we're British," he said, going for a little light-heartedness. It was either that or losing his composure completely.

"True," John conceded with a small nod. "But now what? In case you somehow haven't figured it out yet I'm sure Mycroft's surveillance squad has filled you in on the fact that I don't exactly function without you."

"The feeling is mutual," he assured far too formally, a small grimace escaping. Why, _why_, did it have to be so difficult to verbalise something that was so self-evident?

"Then what do we do?"

"Stay together. Solve cases. Argue about the shopping and the contents of the fridge. I will resume being difficult and you will resume dating boring women that I will scare off once they become too interfering to the work or to us – whichever happens first."

John actually laughed a little at that. It tasted very much like victory.

"I always wondered whether you did that on purpose," John eventually said, a small smile still hovering on his face.

"They were interfering with the work, John," he defended seriously.

"Fine."


End file.
